


Kintsugi

by anseladamsfan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: British Politics, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Tom Riddle, HP Needs More POC!, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending? Sad Ending? Depends on the Reader, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Light Angst, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Other, Politics, Reincarnation, Sexual Content, So Much Social Drinking, Starring Ambition and Pragmatism, Why Is Everyone Sipping Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2019-11-18 07:51:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18116495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anseladamsfan/pseuds/anseladamsfan
Summary: Pieced back together, the two of them become something beautiful.(Fem!Tom Riddle/Harry Potter, with a twist.)





	1. Part I

**PART I:**

Teddy was surprisingly laid back for a nineteen-year-old, Harry decided. If he had had even a tenth of Teddy’s ease, those first few years post-Voldemort would have certainly been much less torturous.

Sipping his wine, Harry watched Teddy laugh from across the ballroom. With his blue fringe and fluorescent robes, Ted was easy to spot amongst the other ministry interns. The bulk of them had clumped over in the corner, no doubt discussing some band that Harry had never heard of and making wild after-party plans.

Harry took another sip of his wine. Hermione was busy discussing some journal article with an international barrister whose specialty Harry couldn’t recall, much less understand, and Ron was devouring yet another charcuterie board. In half an hour, Ron would be able to beg off the rest of the gala, claiming a heavy caseload or maybe the three-day Romanian excursion Harry had assigned Ron’s division. It was nothing more than a simple smuggling case, but Harry still longed to switch places. Being the youngest Head Auror ever was certainly an honor — _a deserved one?_ — but the amount of paperwork it entailed was mind-numbing. Harry didn’t need a Diviner or Mind Healer to know that the position was hardly a good fit. Like most Aurors, he felt most alive out in the field, flinging curses and thinking later. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but there was something about the electricity, the danger, the pulse of battle that was attractive to him.

_Why was danger so attractive to him?_

He swallowed back the thought with another gulp of… Malbec? Cabernet? It was red, and it glittered in the cheap Ministry glass. Sirius would’ve known off the top of his head, identifying the year and the top notes and all of that shite before jokingly lambasting Harry’s lack of wine snobbery. Frowning, he downed the rest of his glass and made his way towards the nearest floating tray, grabbing another.

“Uncle Harry!” Teddy suddenly clasped his shoulder, causing Harry to flinch noticeably. A few people trailed behind Ted, silent witnesses to the whole spectacle. _Of course._ Teddy always had some sort of entourage. Effortlessly popular, Ted had managed to keep Harry’s house filled to the gills with his Hogwarts friends. Most of them, thankfully, held little regard for “The Boy Who Won” or whatever ridiculous name The Prophet was calling him at the time. Harry had often wondered what name Rita Skeeter and her ilk would’ve come up with had he settled down with Ginny. “The Boy Who Loved”? “The Boy Who Wed”? “The Boy Who Met Expectations and Just Let Himself Be Fucking Happy"?

Feeling a headache coming on, Harry slapped on a smile, and Teddy’s grin widened as he made an exaggeratedly courteous gesture towards his new posse. “May I present interns from some of the other embassies," Teddy announced dramatically, waving his hand around like a Muggle game show presenter. "The terrific Tarun! The splendid Sabine! The heavenly Hanuel! The amazing Ava! And... the prodigious Portia!”

The five of them arranged themselves in a line, and the young man in the turban bowed his head slightly, extending his hand. Harry nodded in return, the light buzz from the wine making pleasantries a bit easier. He glanced over at Hermione, now chatting with the Chilean ambassador, before returning his attention to the young woman in front of him. Sabine and her dark lipstick seemed thoroughly unimpressed, giving him a limp handshake, but Hanuel was the exact opposite, gripping Harry’s hand in a sweaty vice. The hum of Harry’s headache got louder, and he winced at Ava’s high-pitched greeting. To make matters worse, she kept enthusiastically pumping his hand, further grating on his nerves. Harry finally managed to extract his fingers and turned to the final woman in the line.

She was one of those intimidatingly pretty Americans, her light brown skin radiant against the satin of her robes, and was about Harry’s height. Harry held out his hand, meeting her gaze. His mind felt… _soft_. Harry wondered whether she was wearing some enchantment, as her eyes were so

 _dark_  


_dark_

  
_dark_

He let go of her hand, lest he be sucked in. The girl was probably wearing a piece of enchanted jewelry or had some rune series stitched into her robes. Harry wondered how she had made it past security, especially as an international delegate, but her hair was _so glossy_ and he marveled at how it curled _just so_ , and he wanted _to touch —_

Harry shook his head. The others were staring at him. _Great._

“Sorry.” He chanced a glance at Portia, who looked down as she quirked her lips, and he gestured to his wine. “Maybe this wasn’t the best idea on an empty stomach.” Better they think him a drunk than an idiot, but at this rate, he’s coming across as both. Best make a quick exit. Harry extricated himself from the circle with a quick wave, taking his mind and his wine to somewhere quiet. A quick five wouldn’t be too remiss. 

* * *

 Harry lit a cigarette in an empty meeting room and stood near the enchanted window. It currently depicted one of the preset views of the countryside — “A regular bucolic,” Hermione often quipped — and Harry could swear he had seen that particular patch of scenery somewhere in Wiltshire.

“I didn’t realize Yorkshire was so fascinating.” Harry whipped his head around, mentally cursing his lack of vigilance. Portia stood at the door, proffering a plate laden with cheese cubes and nuts. “You looked like you could use something to nibble on.” She picked up a cheese cube, and Harry found himself captivated by the way her long fingers delicately plopped the cube in her mouth. He tore his eyes away from her lips and cleared his throat.

“Portia, right?” She smiled in affirmative. Her lipstick was quite distracting, Harry thought, but the vivid crimson made her lips look —

“Should I come in?”

Harry started. Again. _God, he was nervous_. “Er, sure.” He dropped his cigarette to the floor, quickly snubbing it out with the toe of his shoe, and frantically looked around the room for a conversation starter. His eyes settled on the window, firmly avoiding Portia’s gaze. “So, what makes you think this is Yorkshire?” Her shoulders brushed up against his, and he suppressed a shiver.

“Well, I’m American by birth, but I had family there. They’ve all since passed on, naturally,” Portia lingered at this, looking at Harry, before continuing. “But I know Yorkshire when I see it.” She raised the plate, moving it into Harry’s line of sight, and picked up a nut. “Cashew?” Her painted nails gleamed in the dim light. He wanted nothing more than to press his lips to those fingers — which was incredibly odd for him, as he was never like this; his impulsiveness strangely absent from his love life.

And yet, the thought of eating from the hands of this perfect stranger was absolutely thrilling. Harry imagined leaning down, letting the cashew press against his lips, those glorious red nails slipping into his mouth, his tongue caressing the pads of her fingers… He cleared his throat again and took the cashew from her, tossing it in his mouth in an attempt to appear casual.

“Thanks,” he said awkwardly. Harry glanced over at her. She was staring at him with a knowing smirk, and he couldn’t decide whether he was unsettled or aroused. There was something strange yet enthralling about Portia. It wasn’t like being around a recent graduate, or even someone his age. Luna would probably describe her as an “old soul” or some nonsense like that, but that didn’t explain why Harry was positively thrumming in her presence. Why her eyes rooted him to the spot and made his head buzz.

Why he leaned down to kiss her, food plate forgotten.

Portia froze.

Harry panicked. _God, had he made it all up in his head?_ He could envision the headlines: “Boy Who Leched Forces Himself on American Intern!” “Chosen One Makes International Boner!” Ready to apologize, he stepped back, willing his arousal away. Her face completely was completely blank. _Was she in shock? Fuck._ Hopefully, he could play this off as a drunken misunderstanding, and neither of them would ever speak of this again.

Harry’s palms began to sweat as he opened his mouth to apologize, but Portia’s unreadable expression morphed before he could bring himself to speak. A mischievous glint appeared in her eye, and he was up against the wall, arms full of eager intern. She grabbed his face, dragging his lips to hers, and he heard the plate clatter on the ground. Grinning into the kiss, she wound her arms around his neck, and Harry groaned as she ground her hips against his. One hand snaked into his hair, the other clutching at his back, pulling him closer to her. Harry didn’t know when her tongue had made its way into his mouth, but he was being devoured and loving every minute of it. Most of the girls he had been with had wanted him to take charge, so this aggressive little tryst made for a welcome change of pace. He let out a quiet moan as Portia tugged at his hair, yanking his head back. For a moment, there was nothing in the air but the sound of their ragged breathing.

“I’ve been meaning to thank you, Harry,” she whispered, her eyes boring into his.

“For what?” Portia gave him a mysterious smile, and something inside Harry clicked. He had seen those eyes before, he thought, as Portia kissed his neck, his jaw, his cheekbone. She curled around him, her supple body undulating against his, and pressed a soft kiss to his ear. And then another. And then another. Harry was about to move away, his ear a ticklish spot, when she whispered, _no, hissed_ into his ear:

_**"You pieced my soul back together."** _

It took Harry a moment to realize she had just spoken in Parseltongue, but when he did, he went rigid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new story! Time to sharpen my English. Also, while this baby is still in progress, I do have the ending written, so it will be completed within the next few months.


	2. Part II

** PART II: **

“You...” _Nononononononononononononnnooooooo_. He stumbled backwards, eyes wide. His fingers scrabbled for his wand, only to find his wand sheath empty, and his stomach heaved. Portia —  _could he even call her Portia?_  — made no effort to move, her intense gaze practically pinning him to the wall. Without taking her eyes off him, she waved his wand and the door closed, the lock clicking loudly. She stood before him, twisting his wand in her fingers.

“There’s no need to panic, Harry.” Harry begged to differ. He was lightheaded, his cock was still hard, and he felt like he was hyperventilating. _Lord Voldemort was alive and well and standing right in front of him and had his wand and was attractive and they had kissed and what did that mean and did that make Harry gay or bisexual or some other term he didn’t know about and his lips still tingled and he had no wand and if he lunged —_

“Calm down.” She walked over to Harry, placing a steady hand on his chest, and murmured something unintelligible. Harry’s lungs suddenly felt like cotton, and his next inhale smelled strongly of peppermint. They stood there together, his breath slowing to match hers, and Portia removed her hand, stepping back. 

“I did not mean to frighten you.” 

Harry felt like he was going to vomit. And yet, the peppermint made him all floaty and soft, as if he were descending through a cloud. In between sorting out these strange, disparate feelings, his mouth somehow began making the shapes for words.  “H-how… ” he gasped. His voice cracked as he continued. “How are you – here – you...” Tears rolled down his numb cheeks, staining the fabric of his robe. His hands slowly formed fists, as if to punch her, but he would rather claw his eyes out than ever touch that body again. “Don’t you dare – you twisted monster, you – fffffffff – you’re dead, remember? Dead. DEAD. DEAD DEAD dead dead dea–” 

He broke off, openly weeping as he slumped to the floor. The only sounds in the room were his sobs and her silence. After a few minutes, Harry gained control of his breath and wiped his face clean with his sleeve. He didn’t want to look at her, but he could feel the weight of Portia's eyes on him. She hadn’t moved once during his tirade. 

“If the question still stands, I don’t know.”

His head shot up. “Don’t know what?”

“How I’m here. Or, perhaps more importantly, why.” She took a step towards him as if testing the water. “Then again, I’ve always been an exception… in life, in death, in life…”

“You think this is some kind of-of sick joke?” Harry had to do something. “I’ve gotta – I’m gonna –”

“Arrest me?” She smiled, prompting a scowl from Harry.

“Get out of my head, Tom.”

“Portia. And I’m not in it — you’ve always been easy to read, no Legilimency required.” She shook her head, amused. “And you want to arrest me, how… risible.”

“Oh?” Harry challenged, recalling the countless Unforgivables he had personally witnessed Voldemort cast.

“My record is spotless.”

“Like anyone in their right mind would believe that. You’re always up to something, _Tommie_ , and you’re good at hiding it if you want to. You’ve probably tossed off some Crucios on a muggle and stashed away some –”

“Horcrux?” The word lingered in the air, the weight of it making Harry pause. _How could anyone fling that out so casually?_ He opened his mouth to speak, but the strange look on her face made him reconsider. Portia pursed her lips, examining him thoughtfully, and Harry noticed a small mole on her neck. Hermione also had one in roughly the same place, but Harry had never kissed that neck, and now Harry found himself glaring at that mole and the person — the homicidal egomaniac — it was attached to.

“Harry, do you know the definition of insanity?" She paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. "It's repeating the same action, over and over, and expecting a different result.” Portia swallowed, and Harry watched the mole move slightly up and down on her olive skin.“Do you see where I’m going with this?” He didn’t respond, still staring at her neck, and she let out a sigh. Pulling him up from the ground, she forced him to meet her gaze with a few soft touches. “Harry. Harry. Look at me. I’ve made my mistakes, and I have no intention of repeating them.” Portia’s eyes burned into his for several moments, her hands cupping his jaw, and Harry felt dizzy with… _something_.

Suddenly, she stepped back, busying herself with the mess on the conference table. Whipping out her wand, she vanished the remaining food, the plate, his empty wine glass, and the cigarette on the floor. With a few efficient movements, her smudged lipstick worked its way back onto her lips and her hair magically smoothed back into place.

Harry watched, confounded, before snapping out of his shock. “So that’s all? ‘Hello, I’m back, I’ve made some mistakes, ta!’” he said, his voice taking on a shrill edge.

“Not quite. We have plenty to discuss, but I’d rather not be interrupted — your place?” Portia was so nonchalant, so _smooth_ in saying this, that Harry almost forgot who he was talking to. Normally, a woman suggesting they visit “his place” would have him leaping from his seat and scrambling for the nearest Floo, but Harry was rooted in place.

“No. I can’t leave.” 

Portia scoffed. “Do you still need to mingle?” she said, mockery dripping off every word. 

“They’ll wonder where I’ve gone.” _But a so-called bachelor with a young witch after a party was hardly suspicious… or even scandalous…_ Even Harry could see how weak of an argument that was. And, though he didn’t want to admit it, he knew he would eventually be leaving with Portia, whether he wanted to or not. She had his wand, after all, and it would be safer to isolate her from other innocent people. Defeated, he took her proffered hand and felt an enticing tingle in his palm. “Are you… well, did you use some kind of, of, enchantment, some spell, or something?” 

“No,” she snapped. _Well, that was blunt_. Harry knew that he had somehow offended her, but he had no clue how. The two of them quickly left the room, heading for the lift. Upon pressing the down button, she turned to him. “I did not come here tonight intending to ensnare anyone.” The irritation slowly bled away from her voice. “I needed to network, and I was curious to test a hypothesis — our connection was so very unique, as you well know, and I wanted to see if there were any lingering effects. I had no idea that I’d feel you so keenly, or you me, or that we would reacquaint ourselves so… intimately.”

The lift doors opened, and they both stepped in. Harry let go of her hand to wipe his sweaty palms on his trousers, wishing he had his wand. His whole outfit was rumpled, while Portia was immaculate in soft white, glowing like some classic movie star. Except you didn’t see people like her in those classic movies. “Well, you had to have some idea, wearing those robes,” he commented wryly. 

Portia snorted. “Victim blaming. How progressive of you — I thought the Chosen One was supposed to be some bastion of chivalry.” 

It was Harry's turn to snort. “That's not what that was, and you know it. Besides, I’d hardly call you a victim, Tom.” 

At that, she looked away from him. For a moment, she seemed incredibly distant, as if she were looking at something several galaxies away, not the corner of the lift. “No, I’m no victim,” she responded, oddly calm. The lift began to slow, and she turned forward, face blank. “Also, before you have another breakdown, I should remind you that you kissed first.” 

Harry’s jaw dropped just as the bell for the Floo Atrium rang. _Why was she trying to get a rise out of him?_ He clenched his teeth and resolutely stared forward, refusing to give her the satisfaction.

“You were very good. If that’s any consolation,” she said coolly. The doors opened, but neither of them made to move. He chanced a glance at her face. Portia was peering at him through her lashes, the beginnings of a smirk on her face. He glowered back at her.

“I don’t want your approval.” 

“Don’t you?” she said breezily, striding out of the lift and leaving Harry behind, dumbstruck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this is what I hate about fanfiction – I love being able to create and fully own my characters, but on the other hand, it sure is fun to romp through a playground already created by another author. Let me know what you think of Portia/Tom/Voldemort!


	3. Part III

** PART III: **

Harry had never been sensible when it came to Voldemort. 

A sensible man wouldn’t have followed his enemy to the bedroom, entranced by the way their spine dipped under the fabric of their robes. A sensible man wouldn’t have sat down on his bed and watched his enemy disrobe, button by button, taking in their olive skin as it was exposed. A sensible man wouldn’t have let his enemy grind their clit against his mouth, their musky juices coating his lips and jaw.

But Harry had never claimed to be sensible.

It had been so surreal, seeing the reincarnated form of Tom Riddle sitting on his grubby couch. Portia was beautiful where Tom had been handsome, and both bodies shared that same elegance that Harry had found so captivating as a teen. They both had those long fingers, that graceful neck, that intense stare, that subtle way of quirking their lips… Dumbledore had told Harry to pay attention during those evening Pensieve sessions, and Harry had memorized (and, unwittingly, come to appreciate) every aesthetic quality of Riddle. 

And yet, Portia Gamal was no Tom Riddle. And wasn’t merely because of her outward appearance. As an Egyptian-American witch, her new voice and looks were a given, but there was something else… something in the way she held herself. Her body language was open in a way that Tom’s had never been, and there didn’t appear to be a tense muscle in her body. While charismatic, Tom had been so tightly-wound that he gave Percy Weasley a run for his money, the angry twist of his neck a constant throughout Tom’s progression from schoolboy to Dark Lord.

Portia, in contrast, was simply  _effortless_. There was a playfulness, a calmness to her that Tom had never possessed. She was still powerful, there was no hiding that, but Harry was not so much intimidated as intrigued. It was like being around a jaguar who was in a particularly good mood. 

Between sips of wine, she had told him about her upbringing in rural New Mexico and her unexpected rebirthing. Harry was shocked to discover that Portia and her mother were very close, as it had just been the two of them. Her father had died while working at Area 51 a few months before her birth, and her mother hadn't remarried, instead choosing to raise her on her own. They had lived in the middle of the desert, which had apparently made for some fantastic midnight stargazing, and, as an avid reader herself, her mother had let her devour books to her heart's content. 

It wasn't until the age of five that Portia stumbled across her former life as Tom Riddle. A few days after her birthday, she had come down with a case of Dragon Pox, which had almost proved fatal to her, as she was allergic to the main ingredient in the treatment potion. Instead, she had to ride out the illness naturally, and it was in that prolonged feverish state that she waded through previous memories of Wool’s, Hogwarts, and everywhere in between. She hadn’t told her mother about any of this, but she had already been something of a child prodigy, so it hadn't been too difficult to maintain the charade. 

Portia had gone on to attend Ilvermorny, where she was sorted into Horned Serpent, the very house founded by Tom Riddle’s own ancestor, Isolt Sayre, and had been class president and valedictorian. Fresh out of school, she was now launching a career in politics, focusing on wizard-muggle relations. Specifically, on placing additional magical safeguards against muggles, who she claimed would irrevocably discover the wizarding world within the next decade through technology.

When Harry had asked her for specifics, she had only smiled that infuriatingly enigmatic smile. Sloshed from several glasses of wine, Harry had narrowed his eyes and pointed at her accusingly, accidentally brushing her shoulder and pushing her back in the process. Portia had let out an easy laugh, her body splayed on the couch, and Harry had chuckled, too. Eventually, their laughter had died down, and they had both stared at each other in comfortable silence. A hand had then slyly made its way into his, kisses had then been exchanged, and Harry and then said _yes_.

_Yes_ to the woman who had been the man who had killed his parents, who had been the boy who had cleverly manipulated everyone around him, who had been the dark presence in his mind that had shaped Harry more than he liked to admit. _Yes_ to the woman who scratched the itch he’d had since 1998 when he found himself emptier than ever before, his life suddenly devoid of his all-consuming reason for being.

_Yes_ to the woman who was currently extricating herself from Harry’s sweat-laden sheets.

“Are you a Muslim now?” The question popped out before Harry knew what he was saying. He had just collapsed onto the bed, avoiding the wet spot, and was still trying to process everything that had happened over the past few hours. Portia frowned. There was a freckle above her eyebrow that he hadn’t noticed before. 

“Excuse me?” 

He cleared his throat, trying to play it casually. “I was just thinking.” One of his discarded button-downs was floating towards her hands, and a wave of shame washed over Harry. Then confusion. _Why should he care if anyone saw his messy bedroom?_

“A rare occurrence. Why do you ask?” She waved her hand towards the wet spot, which disappeared in a puff of warm air. Harry shivered, grabbing at the sheets, and absently watched as she donned his shirt, the moles near her belly-button disappearing as she did up the buttons. Her dusky nipples were still visible through the fabric, though, which held his attention. 

She cleared her throat, looking at him expectantly.

_Oh. A response would be good_. “Erm. I dunno. It’s been hard for a lot of Muslims over here, all that awful shite that’s been happening in the muggle world, but you don’t wear one of those headscarves, so…” She stared at him like he was the dumbest thing on the planet. Even her nipples looked disappointed, pointing at him aggressively as she crossed her arms.

“No, I’m not. Even if I were, magical Islam’s quite different from the muggle forms. For one, it promotes a line of succession from Muhammad that differs from that of the other sects, which is a fundamental distinction. Secondly, it did not undergo great expansion during the Rashidun Caliphate, unlike the muggle versions, and it has additional hadith literature, of which the non-magical population is unaware. Finally, those headscarves are called hijabs, and you should refer to them as such. Now, I am going to use the toilet, unless you have any other unnecessary questions.”

Confused, he shot her a wary look. _Was she planning some obscure post-coital ritual he didn’t know about?_ Portia brought her hand to her forehead, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Spells aren’t as effective at some things, and I’d rather not end up with an infection, thank you very much.” Harry made a disgusted face as she sighed, absconding to his ensuite bathroom and firmly shutting the door behind her. Automatically, he reached for his wand on his bedside table, only to remember she had it hidden somewhere. Probably some warded pocket in her robes, and he didn’t fancy his chances at figuring that magic out, Auror training or no. Plus, his legs still felt like jelly, and he was exhausted, as it had been a full day of paperwork, parties, and post-midnight chats. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath, counting to twelve.

_Breath in… and hold… breathe out… and hold… breathe in… and hold…_ “I could hear you thinking from in there, you know.” Harry could feel the mattress dip where she sat. She didn’t make to get back into bed, though. With another exhale, he opened his eyes. Portia was leaning over him, giving him a serious look. “I’ve already cast several contraception charms, if that’s what you’re worried about. I have no intention of getting pregnant.”

Harry sputtered. “That’s not — that’s not even on my radar!” 

“Why not? You are a popular public figure of child-rearing age. It should be.”

“Are you telling me to — to be careful?” Harry bit back laughter at the thought of a snake-like Voldemort explaining safe sex practices to him. Arthur Weasley had used little yarn puppets, and Harry couldn’t help but snort at the memory. _Had Molly made those?_ He grinned at the ridiculousness of it all.

Portia cocked her head. “What’s so amusing?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“I don’t make a habit of intruding on other’s privacy.”

_Well, that’s new._ “Huh.” Harry sat up, propping an elbow beneath him. “So, you don’t use Legilimancy at all?” He was a bit dubious at this, but she just shrugged. 

“I have, a few times.” She paused, looking down at her clasped hands. “It’s not the same, not in this body. No one needs to know everything, I suppose,” she said, a hint of melancholy in her voice. 

Harry didn’t know what to make of that. Portia was inscrutable as ever —  _was she sad? Was she manipulating him? Both? Neither?_  A myriad of questions raced through his head as he attempted to process this show of supposed remorse. _Portia may seem sad, but she was his enemy, but his enemy was not entirely his enemy anymore, and enemies didn’t fuck and have thoughtful pillow talk, now, did they?_ He cleared his throat, wracking his brain for a suitable response.

“Well, you could try telling that to the gossip columnists… they find my garbage fascinating.” Harry attempted to come off jokingly, but he just sounded tired. Nevertheless, Portia’s lips quirked up, and whatever funk she was in seemed to evaporate.

“You don’t just vanish it away?” She seemed intrigued, rather than skeptical like Ron or Oliver.

“I tried it a few times. But it just didn’t feel right — muggle upbringing, I suppose? — and we still don’t know where all those vanished things go, so… I try not to buy too much stuff, I keep up a compost heap, and I recycle any muggle plastic or glass that comes into this apartment.”

A genuine smile crossed Portia’s face. It may have been the smallest Harry had seen from her that night, but it was the warmest. “You’re just like Eva. She’s concerned about the environment, too, and the question of the Unspace bothers her as well.” Her voice grew increasingly fond, which Harry would’ve found sweet — had it been anyone else speaking. “She’s very… kind, really. And grounded in her beliefs.”

“Eva’s your mum, right?” She nodded, still meeting his glance. “You think I’m kind?”

Portia looked back down at her hands, her face going blank. It was a few seconds before she spoke.  “What you did was a kindness of sorts. To me, that is,” she added quietly.

“Oh.” He didn’t know what to say.

She frowned, wringing her hands. “You know it was. I was miserable, you were miserable, all those plans were just... bungled up, beyond repair. All because of some childhood preoccupation with immortality.”

Harry recognized her apology for what it was, but he wanted to hear her say it. “Is this your way of apologizing?”

She went completely still. Harry waited, giving her the chance to speak, but an uncomfortable silence hung between them.

After what felt like ages but probably was only a minute, he couldn’t stand it any longer. “Erm.” He cleared his throat, hoping she would speak. “So.” He swallowed, trying to figure out how to reroute the conversation. “Your new mum seems nice. Is she in politics?”

“She’s a yoga teacher,” Portia replied, voice completely monotone.

Aside from a few breathing exercises, Harry had never done yoga, but what he’d seen of it looked kind of insane. “Sounds fun?” he offered weakly.

“Yes,” she said, her clipped tone sounding more British than American. Harry vaguely wondered if her old accent had ever caused her any trouble. Like in that  _Parent Trap_ movie that Teddy had adored as a kid.

Portia let out a heavy sigh, disrupting Harry from his unrelated thoughts, and her posture deflated a bit. He watched, warily, as she appeared to have a conversation with herself. Suddenly, she scoffed, shaking her head before turning to him, that morose look wiped off her face. Her expression was eerily blank, though, which had him on edge.

“Yes,” she said, repeating herself. “It’s much more enjoyable when your soul isn’t in shards.”

Feeling a little brave, Harry decided to test her mood. “I’d reckon most things would be more enjoyable that way.” With bated breath, he watched her features morph into something soft and faintly amused.

“You’d be right." Harry's stomach suddenly let out a loud growl, and she smirked. "Food, especially.”

“Hungry? I made some bread yesterday.”

Portia nodded, and Harry could’ve sworn that he saw something resembling fondness in her eyes. He rolled himself out of bed, grabbing the nearest bottoms he could find. Right as he found the drawstring in his pajamas, she hummed thoughtfully, drawing his attention. Harry glanced up at her, slightly surprised to find her still gracefully perched on the side of the bed.

“I suppose I should give you back your wand.” She wiggled her fingers, and his wand floated to her from her discarded robes. She slowly rose and made her way towards him, stopping in front of him. They were evenly matched, hip to hip, eye to eye, and Harry could feel the heat radiating from her body. 

His mouth went dry. “Oh?”

“We’re breaking bread, aren’t we? The traditional peace offering.” She gently placed his wand in his hand, and he grinned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay — I wasn't sure if I wanted to post this so soon after the New Zealand mosque shootings, as I wrote this before the incident and didn't want to trivialize something so serious. My condolences to the families of those who passed on and to anyone who faces anti-Muslim sentiments in their lives.


	4. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait — real life, you know the drill... Thank you so much to everyone who has been kind enough to read, kudos, and/or comment on this little fic of mine!

** PART IV: **

Over the next few years, Harry never breathed a word as to Portia’s true identity. Following her internship, she had returned to America, and they exchanged letters every so often. More frequently, however, he would come across her name in the paper, usually in the same sentence as some new international security initiative. 

To put it mildly, Hermione was not a fan.

“She’s undermining all of our intercultural cooperation programs!” she ranted, wine sloshing around in her glass. A bit of it got on his couch, but Harry didn’t mind. It was a crappy couch. 

“So, you’re saying that the Internet isn’t dangerous?”

“Well… no. It is. But radical separatism isn’t the way to keep us safe! Viewing muggles as a threat, as some opponent that we must constantly keep ahead of, further perpetuates an anti-muggle stigma. They go from being objects of scorn or ridicule to something to be feared and avoided… something to be killed, even, so that we stay in the lead! It’s the Space Race all over again.”

“But if separatism keeps the magical world safe–“

“I can’t believe you’re defending her! Just because she’s pretty doesn’t mean her policies–”

“I can think with more than my knob, thanks. And I’m just, you know, playing devil’s advocate. I’m not sold on taking magical children from their muggle parents at birth, but the thing with runes and satellites sounds promising?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “The Department of Mysteries has been working on that idea since the sixties, to no avail. What makes you think it’ll suddenly work now?” 

_Well, maybe because a version of Tom Riddle’s working on it directly, rather than delegating the project to some incompetent, magic-raised Knight of Walpurgis?_ Harry briefly toyed with sharing that particular thought out loud but decided it wasn’t worth the potential stay in the Janus Thickey Ward. 

Instead, he just shrugged. 

“You know, if you want to give her an earful, she’ll probably be at Teddy’s birthday party.” Teddy was planning some huge bash for his 21st, and it appeared that every Hogwarts student, ministry worker, and Quidditch player he’d ever met was getting an invite. Portia wasn’t exactly a close friend of Teddy’s — she hadn’t been the ingratiating type since those awful Slug Club days —but she had managed to dazzle the rest of the intern class with her self-assured brilliance. 

Hermione screwed up her face, looking very much like the cross first-year Harry had met on the train all those many years ago. “Maybe I just might.” She gulped down the remnants of her drink and plonked her glass on the table, still frowning. “Now, do you still have any of those rosemary biscuits?”

* * *

Teddy’s party was even more massive than Harry had expected — and, knowing Teddy, he had expected _a lot_. He’d never seen so many people at the Burrow, even during the various Weasley weddings. Half of Puddlemere United was over by the punch, one of them flirting with a sour-faced Sabine. Apparently, the dark lipstick and unimpressed expression were permanent.

Harry felt a gentle touch on his elbow. 

He turned, and _she_ was there, faintly illuminated by the fairy lights. The red lipstick was gone, and she had a fringe now, but Portia was just as captivating as she was when he last saw her in the flesh. He smiled, and she did, too, and Harry couldn’t help but want to protect this soft, delicate thing between the two of them. It was strange, interacting in public, as even an exchange of smiles felt too intimate for prying eyes. He wordlessly accepted a glass of wine from her, and she sidled up to him, sipping from her own glass.

“So, I see I needn’t have worried about an Obliviate.”

“No one would’ve believed me. Plus, it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Oh?”

“You’re doing things the right way. Getting the votes, writing the laws, all that tosh.” Harry paused to wonder what this world might have been if Tom had done things the proper way the first go-round. All of Portia’s ideas were essentially the same as they had been seventy years ago, just revised in response to decades of new research and muggle developments. They were firm and straightforward, and though Harry had his qualms about her harsher proposals, each had proved undeniably effective.

She hummed into her drink. “A dirty game, still, but you approve?” 

“Beats before.”

“It’s my new zen attitude – ‘make policy, not war.’ Rather effective, actually,” she quipped.

Harry chuckled, part of him still doubtful that this was really happening. It was ridiculous to even consider — _small talk at a party with Voldemort?_ — but he couldn’t help but feel a little giddy that she was here. He didn’t have to hide anything with Portia, as she knew the contours of his mind better than anyone, and every moment with her was a revelation. All those things he had wondered about Tom, about Voldemort, about the whos and the whats and the whys he could finally _ask_. He didn’t always get an answer, but those he did get were thoughtful and tinged with regret. Portia was well aware of all that potential she had squandered and seemed determined not to repeat those mistakes.

Throwing caution to the wind, Harry wrapped his arm around her, his hand landing somewhere around her waist. Portia raised her eyebrows in surprise, staring at him as if he were insane, but eventually lowered her head to his shoulder. The two of them stood there for a bit, letting the lights and sounds of the party wash over them before Harry felt a tap on his other shoulder.

Hermione looked ready to burst a blood vessel. “Aren’t you two cozy,” she said in a sugary voice that was vaguely reminiscent of Umbridge. Not that Harry would never tell her that, of course, but that tone always sent curls of dread down his spine. 

“Hermione! Just chatting about Teddy. And the Ministry’s awful taste in hors d’oeuvres.” He quickly unwound himself from Portia, and attempted to make proper introductions, only to have Hermione take over. 

“Miss Gamal, a pleasure.” Her clenched jaw was fooling no one, but Portia still smiled courteously, offering her hand. Hermione ignored it. 

“Shall we sit?” Hermione said, primly. Once seated, she slowly sipped at her punch, using her drink as an excuse to give Portia the once-over. The three of them sat in silence, waiting for someone to speak, and Harry began to worry. _Was it safe to have these two in such close proximity?_ Irritated, Hermione downed the rest of her drink and cleared her throat. Opening her mouth to speak, she was suddenly interrupted by a familiar bellow behind them.

"Harry!" A very jovial Arthur Weasley strolled towards them, more than a little bit tipsy. “And Hermione, of course. I was just having the most marvelous talk with one of our cousins — you remember Ned, the accountant? He and Sarah are expecting, always exciting if the magical genetricks come through. Anywho, they kept talking about something I’d hoped you could explain — brexxie, I think it was?”

Her attention on Arthur, Hermione’s scowl disappeared, only to be replaced with an exasperated look.“Brexit, you mean. And it’s rather complicated and totally unnecessary, but to put it simply, the UK is withdrawing from the EU — the European Union — due to a referendum in which UK citizens could vote to stay or leave. The campaigning was a mess and results were very close, with Leave getting 52% of the vote, so the whole question of leaving is still hotly contested. Supposing we do leave, Merlin forbid, practically everything muggle will be affected — trade, travel, international relations, the structure of the EU Council…”

Harry tuned her out, as he’d read enough about it not to care anymore. Another mess he had no business getting involved in, and, for once, he had no obligation to fix anything. Glancing over at Portia, he watched her nod along to Hermione’s little Pro-Remain lecture before leaning in to ask a question. 

“Do you know what they’re doing about the Irish border?” 

Hermione blinked, taken aback. “Well, they obviously want to avoid a hard border, but when it comes to the specific policy, I have no idea.” She looked a little defeated at admitting to not knowing everything, especially in front of a political adversary, but Portia graciously gave her an out. 

“To be fair, the muggles don’t seem to have one, either,” Portia joked, and Hermione smiled humorlessly.

Arthur just looked confused, either by the strange hostility or the convoluted muggle politics, and was now leaning on a chair for support. “That’s fascinating, Hermione, but what’s this merkin I keep hearing about?”

Portia choked on her drink, coughing into her glass.

“Er, that would be Angela _Merkel_ , the Chancellor of Germany,” Hermione said, her cheeks turning red.

Harry quizzically looked between the two of them. 

“And she’s making the Brexxie happen?” Hermione shook her head, giving up, and asked Arthur whether he’d chatted with Charlie’s friends by the fire pit. Suitably distracted, Arthur made his goodbyes and wandered off from the table, leaving Harry, Hermione, and Portia alone.

Portia delicately dabbed at the tablecloth with a napkin, cleaning up her drink. Without looking up, she smirked deviously, which didn’t bode well for Harry.

“Harry, _darling_ , do you know what a merkin is?” Portia queried. Hermione snickered, catching his attention, and he suddenly felt very nervous.

“Er…” he trailed off, eyes flitting between the two women delighting in his obliviousness. 

“I’m sure Hermione would be more than willing to explain,” Portia demurred. 

Hermione waved her off, biting her lip. “Oh, no. Go ahead.” 

Eyes gleaming with amusement, Portia whispered into Harry’s ear. After a moment, his jaw dropped, and Hermione cackled.

Portia let out a low chuckle at his appalled expression, and Hermione chimed in — “It’s also a name, too. But mainly, you know, a _very special_ wig.” — before they both dissolved into giggles.

“ _Oh my god._  I’m leaving you two to get some fresh air. Where people won’t make fun of my limited vocabulary.” He quickly made his escape, but could still hear their combined laughter several tables away.

* * *

Hermione was long gone by the time Harry made it back to Portia, belly full of Molly’s Victoria sponge.

“So, best friends?” 

Portia shook her head. “Respected acquaintances, more like, but progress is progress.” 

“Always networking, you politicians.” 

She smiled at that, looking down at her empty glass. Her fingers traced the rim as she sat still, obviously mulling over something. “I don’t want to take your friends from you,” she said quietly. 

“Who says you have to take anything?”

“I do. There’s give and take in every relationship, and I’m possessive. I _take_. You know that better than anyone.”

“So…”

“So, if we want to follow this relationship to its natural conclusion, we need ground rules. Boundaries. So that I don’t end up kidnapping you and calling it romance. Unless you’d rather be held captive out in New Mexico?” she said, half-joking. 

Harry didn’t quite know where Portia was coming from, but something deep inside him flushed at the thought of being _possessed_. Of someone _having_ him.

“I’ve never been to New Mexico,” he said dumbly.

She looked up at him, eyes positively raw with want, and placed her hand on his. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've really been thinking about how Brexit might affect Wizarding Britain, if at all. What does muggle trade and travel (or social upheaval) matter to the average magic-user? Also, how the heck would Irish wizards have dealt with the Troubles? Such interesting problems to ponder, but thank god HP is fiction – or real life would be even more complicated!


	5. Part V

**PART V:**

Harry did not, in fact, accompany Portia back to New Mexico. Paperwork simply didn’t get processed that quickly, even for the Boy Who Lived. Besides, there were several ongoing investigations that he wanted to see through before going on sabbatical, and he had to make a few court appearances for an ongoing lawsuit over yet another unauthorized biography. Luckily enough, this so-called biographer had used a French publishing house, so Harry had been able to take advantage of France’s much stricter defamation laws.

Though Gabrielle Delacour wasn’t the lawyer representing him in court, she was a junior partner in the firm he was using. Her specialty was intellectual property — aside from patents, Harry only had vague ideas as to what that entailed — but she would occasionally check in with him to make sure he was satisfied with the proceedings.

“So, a sabbatical? How very French of you.” Her accent was much less pronounced than her sister’s, though Fleur’s had also diminished over the years. She sat back in the carved wooden booth and gave him a calculating look. “Perhaps you could use some of that time to write a biography of your own? We would have a much stronger case for personality rights if we could copyright your own written work.”

Harry grimaced. “I’m not much of a writer.” The idea of devoting hundreds of pages to his life experiences felt so self-indulgent. Anyone who actually knew him could attest to how ordinary he was — it was his circumstances that were extraordinary. Sure, he could cast a Patronus and was an above-average seeker, but that was hardly newsworthy. Besides, he was only thirty-nine. Dumbledore wasn’t even _Dumbledore_ until he was forty-five, and Harry was nowhere near Albus in terms of talent or accomplishments.

Gabrielle cocked her head, skeptical. “If you say so. Let me know if you change your mind, though – a year is a long time.” Glancing at her watch, she gave his hand a flirty squeeze before taking off, briefcase and robes whirling around her.

Harry sat with his tea, mulling the whole matter over.

* * *

“An autobiography. Is there some dearth in the Potter literature that I’m not aware of?” Portia took a swig from her water bottle, eyeing his sweat-drenched cotton t-shirt. Harry had just arrived in Santa Fe yesterday and had barely unpacked before she had dragged him out on a trail. Not that he was complaining all that much, as the views were spectacular. The two of them were surrounded by these immense columns of gleaming limestone, their blinding white peaks jutting into the sky, and Harry could see why the place was called Plaza Blanca.

Leaning up against a boulder in the shade, he dabbed at the back of his neck with a soaked bandana. “Very funny. The book would be more for legal benefits than anything else. All proceeds would be donated to Hogwarts.”

“The scholarship fund?” He nodded, desperately wishing he had brought something better than a ball cap. The skin on the back of his neck, while safe from the sun, was still stinging under his sunscreen charm, while Portia looked comfy under the cover of her sunhat. In fact, practically her entire body was hidden from the sun, from her hiking boots to her long-sleeved button-down. Harry didn’t know how she wasn’t boiling, as even with the cooling charms he was miserable in his short sleeves and shorts.

She bit her lip, assessing his proposal. “Well, you’ve obviously thought about this. I suppose — yes, it could be a good use of your time while I’m working, and you could finally get some control over your public image.” She pushed herself off the boulder and began walking. Seeing as he had no clue where they were going, he quickly followed behind her, his sneakers scrabbling over the pebbles.

“Hey! I just thought it could be useful, you know, to get it all out there.” She suddenly stopped, turning to give him a pointed look. “Well, not _all_ , but the bits that keep getting misconstrued in the rumor mill.”

She sighed. “If that’s what you want, you should try. Have you started writing?” He shook his head. “Your opinion might change after that. We'll see.”

* * *

**_but Hermione was right, like she usually was, and realized that the Sword of Gryffindor was key to destroying Voldemort. Goblin-made weapons are desirable for a wide variety of reasons, but a more obscure feature is that they are enchanted to absorb any poison, or venom they encounter, so thanks to my misadventures during my second year, the Sword managed to come into contact with basilisk venom, making it an effective way of destroying the items Voldemort used to_ _~~tether~~ ~~fortify~~ ~~enhance his power~~_**

Harry resisted pounding his fist against the desk. Terrible writing aside, he had no clue how to talk about Voldemort without mentioning the Horcruxes. It would be irresponsible to plant the idea of them in any aspiring dark lords, but if he didn’t mention them, how could he explain what happened? Reporters had been hounding him for years to get the juicy details — “dark magic” was too vague, apparently — and he wasn’t smart or creative enough to come up with another explanation.

He had spent the day holed up in Portia’s NYC pied-à-terre, scribbling away into a notebook while drinking tea and listening to a few records on repeat. Yesterday, he had ventured out for a smoothie and ended up walking around the park and petting dogs for several hours, which was hardly a productive use of his time. Hence, the self-imposed exile. Though, to be fair, exile didn’t usually involve granite countertops and fancy candles that smelled like the Hogwarts library. He’d have to ask her where to buy those so he could send one to Hermione.

The sound of the door latch lifting interrupted his thoughts, and he stood up, stretching his shoulders and neck. Marching into the kitchen, he made a beeline for the quiche and platter of roasted vegetables he’d placed under a stasis charm. While Portia deposited her robes and shoes in the entryway, he swiftly pierced the translucent bubble of the charm and let the scent of the food waft through the room. She padded through the kitchen doorway, her smart pantsuit slightly disheveled.

“Bad day?” Harry guessed. Her face was blank, but in that eerie way she got when she was livid. He cut into the quiche, giving her the first slice, and quickly made up a plate for her.

“Another wasted committee meeting. Nothing’s being done to address the touch screen issues magic users are facing. Giving every witch and wizard a stylus is hardly a long-term fix for the problem, but Richards and his group of antiques won’t budge until they keel over.” Hovering over the counter, she took an angry bite of the quiche, which put an end to her rant. “This is delicious.” Harry blushed, face turning a lively shade of pink, and she chuckled. “You need to get better at receiving compliments.” Portia devoured the rest of her plate before leaning in to kiss his cheek. “So, how’s my budding Beckett?”

“I don’t know who or what that is.” Harry grabbed another plate and portioned out a much larger slice, the cheese practically oozing from the crust.

“Mm. I’ll track down a few things for you to read. You’ll like him. Too bad we couldn’t catch Ian McKellan and Patrick Stewart in _Godot_.”

“I recognize some of those names,” he joked. Portia had this thing about the theatre, a shelf in the living room completely devoted to play programs. She even had this ancient one from  _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ that had been autographed by Vivien Leigh. Harry recognized _that_ name. He had yet to pry, but he suspected that this particular obsession stemmed from her Tom Riddle days. After all, Wool’s Orphanage had been in Lambeth, which was within walking distance to the West End, and going to the theatre was and still remained a rather posh thing to do — and Riddle had been nothing if not upwardly mobile.

“So, how’s the chapter coming along?” She lingered over his desk, leafing through today’s pages.“Ah.” Harry put down his fork, now nervous.

“What?”

She tapped his notebook with her finger, making him even more nervous. “Parselmagic,” she declared mysteriously.

“What?!” he repeated.

“Parselmagic. Say that I underwent dark rituals that only a parselmouth could undertake and that you had to destroy the ritual talismans.”

Harry frowned. “Does any of that even exist?”

“Oh no, but who would know? There are arcane magics that function in that manner, so the logic is consistent. It would be a satisfying explanation, and those reading it would be assured that nothing like the likes of me would be possible anytime soon. Unless, of course, there was a sudden influx of dark-minded parselmouths.”

Harry toyed with the notion of parselmagic. Hermione and Ron would know otherwise, of course, and so would a few select people (most notably, Kingsley Shacklebolt), but the secret had been maintained for over two decades.

Portia sensed his hesitation. “No one is going to challenge you on this. Trust me. Tabloids are far more interested in sex than sorcery. Also, anyone rushing off to find out if parselmagic exists would find nothing, which has the effect of making Voldemort appear like a freak of nature — rather than the once-in-a-generation talent that comes along every few decades.”

“So, like that dark lady down in Venezuela?” Harry wasn’t touching that mess, no matter how many reporters back home bugged him about it. The woman was barely thirty and was hellbent on doing something about the food crisis down there, making threats against muggle and magical leaders alike. Not that he blamed her, really, but her methods were dicey at best.

“Yes,” she said, latching on to his reasoning. “Mendez is being portrayed as some sort of monster, but when it comes down to it, she is just like any other witch… which is the more terrifying thought. People are far more scared of the boogeyman than the man next door, which shouldn’t be the case, but that's the comforting narrative we cling to.”

“So, I’m making you the boogeyman?” he asked uneasily.

“It’s the only sensible option. But you should rethink some of these commas. It’s a little difficult to follow.”

* * *

Hermione was visibly concerned. She hadn’t seen him in months, and Harry had never been great at responding to letters, much less her effusive ones. Still, that didn’t stop her from hugging him tightly when they finally met up during one of her visits to the States. Some MACUSA conference or another — the details slipped through Harry’s mind like sand through a sieve, as all the legal jargon made his eyes glaze over — but he was thrilled to see her. It was just like old times, him drinking his juice while she sat glowering at him from across the table.

“She’s so _young_ , Harry. And a separatist, but I digress. Yes, Portia’s very accomplished so far, but she’s barely out of school, honestly,” she hissed over the menus. They were at his favorite Brooklyn lunch spot, but she was less than enthused about all of the fancy grilled cheese options. “You know how this must look.”

“I do.” He glanced out the window, only to find a bearded man in a yellow beanie riding a unicycle. Suitably distracted, he turned back to Hermione. “It’s not good PR, but when have I ever had good PR? There’s always a spin on everything I do, so I might as well just live my life.” He was reminded of that Billy Joel song Portia’s mum had played for him —  _go ahead with your own life, leave me alone! —_ but, unfortunately, real life was never as simple as an old pop song from the 70s.

“I agree, but the fact remains that she’s a pretty young thing. They don’t care about the actual dynamics of your relationship – on the surface, it looks like you’re taking advantage of her. Which I know you would _never_ ,” she added quickly, “but it looks bad.”

“Who’s to say she’s not taking advantage of me?”

“Oh, she definitely will use your status for political gain if she hasn’t already, but the difference between 22 and 40 is a significant one. If we were ten, twenty years down the road, no one would blink an eye, but she’s essentially a child.”

“We fought a war before 20.”

“And we were children in that war.”

Seeing her grave expression, Harry was overcome by a perplexing combination of anger and guilt. He hated it when he got like this — his emotions seemed to vacillate between all or nothing. Either he was floating in mindless apathy or he was having mood swings that would put a pregnant witch to shame. Swallowing back his distress, he took a deep breath before responding. “Hermione, I can’t just break this off because of optics or whatever. This is,” he paused, mind suddenly clear. “This is the real thing.” What thing it was exactly, he didn’t know, but Portia and Tom and Voldemort would be in his life forever, and without them, he felt untethered. Like the abstract idea of a protagonist, aimlessly blowing in the wind, whose only purpose was to be the image of something he wasn’t whenever he was summoned.

“Okay,” she said slowly, eyes flitting over him warily. “I will support you in this relationship, but don’t say-"

“You didn’t warn me. Got it.” He looked down at his grilled cheese morosely and fidgeted with a waffle fry. “So, how’s Ron?”

Hermione seemed to deflate a bit, which did not bode well. “Aside from some asinine commentary, he’s fine,” she said, her tone brittle.

“Asinine?”

“Extremely stupid or foolish.” Harry gave her a dark look. “Oh, I know you know what it means. It’s just, well, he made some comments about how I’m letting myself go.” Catching his incredulous expression, she let out a pained laugh. “Yes, I thought so, too. I guess it’s that I’m still half a stone heavier than I was before Rose and Hugo. And I am wearing my hair shorter, which he never liked, so…” she trailed off, blinking back tears.

Harry reached across the table, grasping her hand. “Hermione, I don’t know if you know this, but Ron is an idiot.” She smiled wetly, the grin not quite reaching her eyes. “He’s my friend, but you’ve always been there for me, so if you need me to give his hypocritical fat arse a talking to-”

“No no no. If I wanted that, I’d tell another Weasley. I just feel as if I’m teetering on the precipice of something, and I need my friend.” She let out a shaky breath. “My best friend.”

“Are you two in, erm, dire straits?” he asked, not wanting to upset her further. Hermione was no delicate flower, but she had let her shield down and Harry knew just how difficult that could be.

“No,” she sniffed. “When the kids are around, it’s lovely. But the long hours, the lobbying, the campaigning — it’s really putting a tremendous strain on him, and he’s not even the one doing the work. I’m just worrying over nothing, I’m sure.”

“Okay,” he said, not all that sure. “I’m around if you need me. We can do some international Floo Calls or something. I know Portia would love to have you over for dinner, either here or in New Mexico.

Hermione smiled weakly. “Maybe during my next trip.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts, feelings, or concerns? Let me know in the comments!


	6. Part VI

**PART VI:**

Harry gloomily nibbled at his slice of pizza, the gooey mix of cheeses hardly registering. Normally, he’d eat anything containing mozzarella with great gusto, but he could barely even bring himself to chew. Across the table, Portia speared a piece of gnocchi with her fork, taking a perfunctory bite before resting her fork on her plate and leaning towards him, elbows resting on the tablecloth.

“You mustn’t be so worried. I doubt anything will come of it,” she murmured under the din of the restaurant. “She’s very pragmatic, your Hermione, and she knows as well as anyone that a divorced candidate is a much harder sell, especially as a woman and mother — and even more so as a muggleborn.”

He began to fidget with the cloth napkin in his lap. “Yeah. I guess… I just thought that they’d be together forever, you know? After everything they went through, you’d think marriage wouldn’t be nearly as hard.” It was difficult, saying that out loud, and he could feel the tears forming in his eyes. Letting out a deep breath, he averted his gaze towards his plate and began examining his pizza toppings. _Mozzarella. Parmesan. Brie. And… was that ricotta?_

Portia gave him a moment to pull himself together. “Ambition is the third person in any relationship, and some couples thrive in that situation. Others don’t,” she said, as if it were all that simple.

Harry understood what she meant, of course, but it didn’t stop him from hurting when he saw his friends at each other’s throats. They had always bickered over something or another, but Harry couldn’t tell exactly when those arguments had gone from light and flirty to heated and bitter. It had been a few years since Ron had waxed poetic about his wife to him, but Harry had attributed that to no longer sharing the same office as Ron. Their days prattling over the water cooler were long gone, and Harry had neither the time nor the energy to go for drinks after work.

Hermione, however, had always made time for Harry, whether it be a quick coffee in the cafeteria or helping plan Teddy’s graduation party. She had this insistent way of forcing herself into your life that he appreciated, as Harry was the sort who, left to his own devices, would drift away from everyone. Maybe her determination was too much for Ron — Hermione devoted 110% to everything, which might be exhausting in a marriage. But then, why was this coming to a head now? They’d been together for decades and had two children who were currently attending Hogwarts.As far as Harry knew, Ron had never strayed, and Hermione wasn’t the type to cheat, either, as she saw cheating as an admission of failure. Or, at least she did when Pansy Parkinson did it years earlier.

“Do you really think it will sort itself out?” he asked hoarsely, a hint of desperation in his voice.

“I would be shocked if it didn’t.” She fiddled with her fork, contemplative. “You know, my mother could probably recommend a good counselor. Someone discreet. Either here or over there.”

Harry cocked his head, confused. “How? I thought your mum was all yoga-y. You know, crystals, salt lamps, incense.” _Like divination_ , he didn’t want to say.

She shook her head. “She is now, but she used to be a Mind Healer before the incident with my father. Most of her former colleagues take her classes, actually. Apparently, inversions are beneficial to maintaining emotimagical balance.”

He resisted the urge to frown. Truly, he was skeptical — Eva seemed so calm and laid-back, making her own pottery and doing “wind dances” (whatever those were). Harry just couldn’t see her as a Mind Healer. They were all straightforward and aggressive, always scribbling onto a clipboard, and had these intense, intimidating stares. Or, at least the ones the Aurors used were all like that.

“I never would’ve guessed,” he replied honestly. “About her being a Mind Healer, that is,” he added. He had no interest in all that reiki and sage burning stuff that Eva liked to prosthelytize, and Portia seemed to be of the same mind, though she did humor her mother. “So… did she ever analyze you?”

Portia nodded, smirking slightly.

“And you must’ve really fooled her, then?”

Her face broke out into a self-satisfied grin. “Oh, absolutely. It was a bit of a challenge, but after reading a few of her diagnostic texts I was able to figure out the parameters for ‘normal’ and act accordingly.”

Harry chuckled. He could absolutely imagine it in his mind’s eye — Portia, all of five, cracking open a book half her size and taking rigorous notes with a quill too large for her hand _._ “Are you acting right now, then?”

“ _Obviously_. That man who pinched my ass on the way in — I would _eat his heart_ in the marketplace,” she said, half-vicious, half-sarcastic. Harry knew she was quoting something, but he couldn’t quite remember.

“Shakespeare?” he guessed. She nodded, looking pleased as punch.

* * *

That summer, the World Cup Final was in Maine, of all places. It was the first time the Cup Final had been held in America since the 1800s, and Portia had managed to wrangle a few tickets for them. Harry, however, had also put out feelers for tickets and had ended up with a dozen seats for a private box and an enthusiastic handwritten note from the president of the International Quidditch League.

“My my, does the fame pay off,” Portia said mockingly, stroking the velvet arms of her chair while sipping on yet another pre-game cocktail. Harry rolled his eyes and downed his own drink, which made his eyes burn. _Damn, that was strong._ She must have the constitution of a giant, he thought idly, as even one glass had him feeling woozy. He was grateful for the newfangled privacy screen, as, without it, the press would be getting several loopy-looking photos of him right about now. 

The rest of the box was hovering near the buffet, oohing and aahing over some giant buttery lobster concoction and scarfing down what seemed to be an unlimited supply of cheddar biscuits. Ron was making the most headway, his plate piled high with vinegar chips and fried oysters, but Oliver and Ginny weren’t far behind. With the two of them playing, England’s national team had managed to make it all the way to the quarterfinals this year, which was cause for celebration. George and Angelina were entertaining the kids — Rose, Hugo, Freddie & Roxanne — by teaching them some raunchy limerick, which Teddy began singing operatically about halfway through. Hermione would’ve complained about the noise had she been there, but she was on holiday in Australia with her parents, who had relocated there permanently after the war.

A few months ago, Harry had approached Hermione about the counselor recommendation, which she gladly accepted, but supposedly Ron had refused to make an appointment. He hadn’t confronted Ron about it yet, but he honestly had no clue how to go about it — and he hardly was going to spoil all the World Cup fun. He’d leave that to Hugo, who kept turning down George’s repeated offers to work the summer at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

“Huey, please! This is your uncle, on his knees, begging you to get your nose out of _Transfiguration Today_!” George’s loud plea resulted in rowdy cheers, which only furthered Hugo’s embarrassed blush.

“No. I want to do something serious, not silly.”

“Silly? Do you hear that Ronniekins, you’ve raised another Percy!” he exclaimed, before leaning down towards Hugo. “I thought you might want to learn how to balance the books,” George paused, seeing the interested spark in his nephew’s eye, “but I see that numbers aren’t _serious_ enough for you!” He whirled around, dramatically flipping his Team Sweden cape, before marching towards the bar in a faux-huff. Harry caught his eye and winked, causing George to grin into his blue-and-gold Butterbeer. 

“Everyone’s so cheerful. It’s nice,” Portia sighed happily, her head lolling onto his chest. She had somehow transfigured their individual seats into a loveseat without him noticing, despite the fact he’d been sitting down the whole time. “I like it when it’s fuzzy.”

“How’s that?” he said, looking down at her. She looked so young like this, and while it wasn’t _a thing_ for him, Harry couldn’t help but feel a bit proud that a schlub like himself had managed to snag someone as gorgeous and talented as Portia. As Tom. _Whatever._

“It’s fuzzy. Warm. Like an embrace.” She hummed contentedly into his jumper, rubbing her face against the chunky knit. 

“Aren’t we poetic tonight,” he chuckled. She waved him off half-heartedly, her hand lackadaisically flapping in the air. “Did we drink too much?” Portia shook her head, but Harry noticed her wordlessly fill her glass with water. _Uh huh_. He lifted the glass towards her free hand, and she accepted it thankfully.  Gulping down her water, she nodded towards Ginny, who had just lightly punched Oliver in the arm.

“She’s the one, isn’t she?” Harry didn’t know what she meant. “With the diary,” she added, perhaps a little too loud, but no one was listening. He screwed up his face, not wanting to say anything. “And you dated,” she added, depositing her empty glass beside her. “Good looking–” she yawned “–couple.” She rested her head back against Harry, closing her eyes. _Guess she’s really interested in the game_.

Harry felt a sudden pang of guilt. It had been almost two decades, and yet he still felt terrible about breaking up with Ginny. They had both been so young and full of promise, but Harry hadn’t been able to snap himself out of the funk of war. It just hadn’t felt right, dragging her down into his mess, and he had ruined enough lives already.

Portia pressed a tender finger to his lips. “Shhhhh.” She tapped his mouth until he smiled. “Don’t feel bad. She’s warm around you. Content.” She kissed his chin, her lips soft against his stubble, and Harry was left with only one thought:

_What the hell did she mean?_

* * *

Portia shivered beside him in bed. “Jesus,” she whispered. Harry grinned, feeling more than a little bit smug. “I know I asked you to, but you went much longer than expected.”

“I live to serve,” he joked, lazily fumbling in the dark for a tissue. His face was absolutely coated in Portia’s slick and cleansing charms always left his skin feeling all tight and itchy. As he wiped down his jaw, she turned to snuggle against his side, her eyes gently tracing his every move.

“You’ve gotten very good at that,” she remarked, voice husky.

“Practice makes perfect.”

“You’ve always been good. Did you get a lot of practice before?” _With Ginny_ went unspoken.

Harry’s smile faltered. “We actually didn’t get that far.”

“Oh?” Her brow furrowed in genuine surprise.

“We meant to, but our training schedules never lined up."

"That can't be the only reason."

"It's not. Obviously. I realized we couldn't — before we — and I," he sputtered. She was looking at him expectantly, and it was like something finally broke inside him, the need to speak welling up inside him like water behind a dam. "So," he started, his voice wavering slightly. "So, there was this one week where we had a few days of overlap, and I spent the weekend prior just piddling around. You know, movies, museums, sitting in the park. I hadn’t gotten to do that before, and it was nice to just blend in for a bit."

He paused, gathering his courage. His hands were trembling, and Portia calmly took hold of them, silently urging him on.

"Anyway, the night before she came over, I tried a… beta version, I guess you’d call it, of George’s new Patented Daydream Charm. I’d never tried them before, but they were very popular, so I gave it a whirl. It had these options — like film ratings — and I, being the repressed teenager I was, chose the racy one. The dream went weird from there. It, um, took me back to the Chamber…” She nodded, listening intently, and he cleared his throat before continuing. “I thought, _oh, how strange, am I going to be waking up Ginny in some kinky way_ , like, Sleeping Beauty with my dick or something.” He laughed breathlessly, teetering on the edge of an out-of-body experience. “And then you — Tom — walked in.”

She was motionless.

“Yeah. I was shocked, too. The thing is, with these Daydream Charms, you can exit them anytime you want. I dunno why I didn’t pull the thread to leave… I guess some part of me was curious? I hadn’t seen you — Riddle — in ages, and you were there and so, so handsome and hateful and I felt so dirty but you already knew I was dirty and I liked that so I, I just. Let it happen.” 

“What did I do?” she whispered.

“Nothing that I didn’t secretly want. Charm for daydreams, not nightmares, right? You, uh, put me in my place. Um. You started by talking about how we were so alike — which actually happened with the diary, mind you — and you took my wand, my glasses, my clothes. You made me lick your shoes, and you jerked yourself off, coming all over my face and my hair. I had to eat it off of your fingers, and then you turned me over to take me, which... hurt. I cried, you laughed. I bled, you bit. I… I really liked it,” he admitted, words tumbling out of his mouth. Feeling a little choked up, he cleared his throat and tried to figure out how to explain what came next. “When I woke up, I—I had to—I couldn’t stay with Ginny after that. I knew if I loved it, I could never be with her. Never sully her with that… sick part of me. She didn’t deserve someone who was broken like that.”

Portia placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a hesitant squeeze. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I’ve never told anyone,” he said, barely audible.

“I know.” A pensive look crossed her face. “I do have one question, though. Did I kiss you?”

“No.”

She kissed him gently. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize. My mind’s the one who came up with it.”

With that, the two of them lied there in silence for several minutes, the distant sound of the clock ticking in the background. Countless thoughts raced through Harry’s head, but he had no clue what to say. _Thanks for listening? Thanks for fucking up my subconscious with your cheekbones? Thanks for–_

“You know, you weren’t too far off the mark,” Portia announced, interrupting his mental spiral. She turned to face him, an impish glint in her eye, which normally meant Harry would enjoy whatever happened next.

“Not that I would have ever defiled the chamber, but if I had met you at sixteen…” Portia stroked his wrist, looking wistful. Harry didn’t move, curious to see where she was going with this. “You were so lovely then, just on the cusp of manhood." She traced his jawline with her nail, toying with the small cleft in his chin. "At Hogwarts, I would’ve claimed you for my bed, marked you.” She touched his neck, and Harry shivered, imagining a love bite there. “I would’ve fucked your thighs, thanking the gods you played Quidditch.” Her legs rubbed up against his, and his cock twitched, clearly interested. “I’d have fingered you until you begged me to stop.” Harry’s breath hitched at that, and she huffed in amusement, trailing her lips up his neck. “But most importantly, I would’ve kissed you. Tasted you. Everywhere.” She licked the shell of his ear, just the way he liked it. “So, your dream was wrong.”

Portia leaned back, examining her handiwork. Harry shuddered under her gaze, fully hard again. He wanted to beg for her to touch him, to make good on her promises, but he knew better. She would leave him trembling like this, writhing and wanting, for as long as it took for him to break down and sob. Then, she would clench her fist around him and jerk him off slowly, carefully, taking in his every whimper. Once he came, she’d gather him in her arms, wipe his tears from his cheeks, and hold him until he fell asleep.

He needed nights like these, and Portia was all too willing to give them to him.


	7. Part VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, for something completely different...

**PART VII:**

Harry needed nights like these.

Portia watched him doze in her lap, his breathing calm and regular. Brushing Harry’s hair back from his forehead, she traced a manicured finger across the infamous scar, still amazed that her Horcrux had managed to inhabit such a minuscule sliver of skin. His skin was soft, delicate, sensitive, just like the rest of him. From afar, he looked every inch the noble hero, scarred from battle and bursting with righteous tenacity, but up close, he was still a boy.

Her boy.

His body still sung out for hers, even without the Horcrux linking them together. Seeing him for the first time, after so many years, had been such a pleasant surprise. She had been planning for that moment for so many years, and even she had been shocked by his reaction. The moment he touched her hand, she could feel his magic thrumming through her veins, reaching out to reunite with her own. Even with the new name, the new face, the new life, his soul had recognized hers – and she would’ve been a fool to resist the thrall.

After all, magic had so many mysteries, and Portia had always been one for riddles.

Her Harry had been so lost, so vulnerable, so incomplete without her. It didn’t take an empath to realize that… but it certainly helped that she was one. Harry’s every emotion was of interest to her—how to manage them, how to coax them out of him, how to wield them to her advantage.

Harry had yet to cotton on to her empathic abilities, and she suspected he never would, even with all of her blatant hints. For one, it was common knowledge that empaths found Legilimancy difficult, as the simultaneous experience of exterior emotion and internal memory was overwhelming. There was significant literature documenting this phenomenon, much of which lined the shelves of her living room – she had even left a hefty text on empaths throughout history on the coffee table, for chrissakes. And what’s more, in a drunken performance worthy of Lawrence Olivier, she had deliberately described his Weasleys as “fuzzy,” only for her aberrant use of adjectives to go unnoticed.

_And he called himself an Auror._

Harry stirred in her arms. Her focus immediately shifted to his slumbering form, and she gently hugged him to her chest. After she whispered a short incantation, his body went utterly lax, fully succumbing to sleep.

Portia smiled down at him. His hair was an absolute bird’s nest, but there was something endearing to his perpetual bedhead, especially now that he was beginning to go gray. She would have to schedule a trim for his sideburns, though, as they were slightly too long for his jawline. Unless he wanted to grow a beard? She held his cheeks in her palms, tilting his face from side to side. Her Harry did look quite lovely with some stubble, and a beard could lend some gravitas to his boyish good looks. Nothing too long, of course.

Yes, she would suggest a beard to him in passing, planting the seed of thought in his mind, and act surprised when he decided to grow one a few weeks later. The same thing had worked for his glasses, which were now handsome tortoiseshell frames, and his hygiene, thank goodness. His days of 3-in-1 shampoo, conditioner & body wash were long gone, replaced with woodsy cologne and moisturizer. One mention of sunscreen charms not preventing melanoma and Harry had raced off to the nearest pharmacy, returning with a full skincare regimen.

His wardrobe remained a work-in-progress, however. It was essential that he felt in control, so she had slowly incorporated nicer items into his closet, like that slate blue linen jumper he now wore at least once a week. It was as if she had cast a spell on him, his new suede jackets and designer trainers making him stand a little taller every time he wore her little gifts. Portia had even caught him preening in the mirror after she had given him a particularly luxe cashmere hoodie. All it took were a few compliments, and he would naturally gravitate towards his new clothing, abandoning his ragged flannels and sagging denim. Those obnoxious Weasley sweaters were there to stay, unfortunately, but they rarely left the house, and she wasn’t attempting a full transformation. Instead, she was chiseling him into the man he could be.

How perfect he would look, standing by her side on the campaign trail, his youthful charisma radiating through the photographs in the papers… if could bring himself to relax and let his natural charm do its work.

Of course, those political plans were many years off, as this body was barely old enough to vote, much less commandeer a political faction. For now, she devoted her days to policy work and keeping Harry happy—not unthinkably so, but just enough to be content. After everything her boy had been through, he wouldn’t know what to do with pure, undiluted happiness. Moments of euphoria had to be interspersed with sadness and frustration. Her Harry was the sort to distrust anything too easy, too smooth-sailing, too perfect. And with that unshakable guilt complex of his, he would believe himself to be undeserving of anything too positive in life.

Such a pity.

But could he have been any other way, considering the hand he had been dealt? If Harry was in any way broken, it was because of her. Portia had inadvertently broken him to fit her, and now she had a weary, self-conscious hero on her hands. No one else seemed to be able to take care of him properly, and she couldn’t stand idly by as the former bearer of her soul descended into depressing mediocrity. He was barely forty and desperately flailing for some real, romantic connection, which Portia was all too willing to provide. He was hers again, hers to conquer, hers to care for, hers to watch cooking naked in the kitchen.

Her thighs shifted at the thought of his bum, deliciously unclothed, in an apron. She could admit that caring for Harry wasn’t entirely a hardship. He was an excellent cook, truly, and his bashfulness was amusing to toy around with, should she desire the entertainment. They weren’t equals by any means in this relationship—Portia indubitably had the upper hand, just as she had in her past life—but Harry brought a softness, a sweetness, a sort of gentle sincerity to their romance that she appreciated. There was something endearing in his vulnerability that she wanted to protect from the world.

Unfortunately, their relationship would go public, sooner rather than later. She couldn’t hide him in the shadows, no matter how that would thrill him. Portia could hardly complain, however, as his reputation would be an incredible boon to her career. She would be a fool not to take advantage of his image. As a war hero and celebrity, a figure of his status would only enhance her own, and she needed every boost she could get to pass her bills on the floor. No matter how brilliant she might be, even in America she was beholden to the traditional gatekeepers of politics: old white men.

She had been one herself, once. Portia hadn’t realized, first-go-round, how difficult it was to be a woman, much less a woman in the political arena. For all Voldemort’s claims of omniscience, basic feminism had been beyond her grasp. She had been born as Tom Riddle at a somewhat awkward time, she supposed, too late for the first wave and too early for the second. She had, to her great shame, thought of women as generally passive and insipid creatures, barring a few notable exceptions. Now, of course, she knew better—on the whole, people of all genders were generally unimpressive, her Harry included.

No, her Harry didn’t impress her, but very few people did. His spell work was repetitive, his magical power only slightly above average, his writing unrefined. At the very least, he didn’t pretend to be anyone other than who he was, and that authenticity was refreshing. But what was more important than any lack of pretense was his ability to _understand_. Not magical theory or abstruse literary references, of course, but rather Portia and Tom Riddle and Voldemort and everyone in between. He didn’t know her fully—no person could ever know another in totality, no matter what the love songs might say – but he understood her more deeply than anyone else alive. Her Harry was all she had left from before, and she had to preserve that.

Not that she needed him, much less something as simple as his _understanding_ —no, she wasn’t dependent on anyone for anything, much less companionship. She simply wasn’t the type to get lonely, in this life or any life.

But still...

There were days when she would come home, vexed and bone-weary, to be met with a roguish smile and her heart would flutter like a schoolgirl. It rarely happened, but when it did, she couldn’t help admonish herself for harboring such quaint feelings. She had experienced obsession before, but fondness? Even Nagini hadn’t made her feel this affectionate. Then again, Nagini hadn’t made her home-cooked meals or warmed her bed, so it was hardly a fair comparison.

Nevertheless, Portia had never felt so content as she did now. Harry was hers, his, _theirs_ —and he would be the hero for her cause. Loathe as she was to admit it, she needed Harry for her plans to work. No matter how many reporters referred to her as a “rising star,” Portia knew her place was tenuous at best. Being a woman of color, no matter how light-skinned, wasn’t exactly advantageous to a career in politics. Thankfully, the wizarding world was less bigoted than the muggle one, but the bias was still there, an invisible wall between her and the majority of her colleagues. During committee meetings and floor hearings, Portia was rarely the only woman or person of color in the room, but she was one of few.

And no matter how professionally she dressed or how cogently she spoke, the majority of the room still refused to take her seriously.

Had she done that in her past life? She had certainly engaged in more than her fair share of sins, but she couldn’t recall ever having been so dismissive. Then again, wouldn’t it be just like a privileged white male to be dismissive without realizing it? At the very least, she knew that she had never touched a black woman’s hair without asking. Portia was still seething from last week when Walters, a member of the “senate antiques,” decided to pat Ijeoma on the head as if she were some Crup and not a two-term Senator in her late thirties. Walters was the head of that committee, however, so no one dared to confront him about any wrongdoing in favor of getting through the meeting notes.

With Harry’s reputation behind her name, she would wield more political weight. She would be able to create change, _real_ change, and establish a robust magical society that could withstand a war with the muggles. And it would come to that, the way things were headed, as you couldn’t Obliviate en masse over Twitter. The conspiracy theories were already out there in the deep recesses of the internet, with muggles poring over blurry video clips and trying to prove or debunk the so-called magic they witnessed. Typically, such videos would involve levitation or color changes, which could be explained away with optical illusions and oddities created by lighting and camera lenses. What was more concerning were tales of magically-resistant muggles in Ukraine and Belarus. Unspeakables were floating the idea that it had something to do with Chernobyl, but Portia was skeptical. Radiation hadn’t created such effects in the hibakushas that survived the atomic bombings in Japan. No, something else was afoot.

Harry stirred, snuggling even further into her chest and letting out a sigh. Portia was hardly buxom, but he seemed comfortable.

Comfortable enough to stay with her? She doubted his impending return to that Aurors office would be a permanent one. There were older, more grizzled candidates who would be much better at managing unruly underlings and the ever-growing mountains of paperwork. Harry was competent enough, but he wasn’t thriving in that leadership role. Perhaps if his celebrity hadn’t been working against him, things might be different, but there was no changing the fact that he was the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the Vanquisher of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

A career in activism would suit him much better, as he would not be beholden to any ministry regulations and could focus on issues that mattered to him. If Harry wanted to pull a Prince Charles and go gaga over organic farming techniques or sustainable water use, he would be free to do so. Should he want to establish a magical orphanage or fund some scholarship for impoverished young witches, his considerable political weight would make such projects possible. Really, anything with his name behind it was set to succeed, and he was squandering his potential behind a desk.

Portia gave it six months before a formal letter of resignation. Drawn to the relative anonymity of the States, he would move back in with her, and they would upgrade from a one-bedroom to a brownstone. _More room to entertain_ , she’d claim, but she knew he’d secretly be thinking _more room for children._

And there would be children, eventually. Two or three, no more, and he would be the one taking care of them while she worked. Harry was the sort to enjoy packing lunches and playing kiddie Quidditch, and she knew he would be a good father. The kind that people gave heartfelt eulogies for, that put their children’s needs before their own, that knew what love was and how to give it.

Portia had never been good at that sort of thing. What she did understand, however, was desire. Portia knew what it meant to thirst after something, to obsess over something until the world felt meaningless without it, to fall into restless dreams of conquering and ownership. Back at the orphanage, she had this small cigar box of baubles. Buttons, whistles, a yo-yo, a bright yellow crayon. They were nothing but insignificant knickknacks, utterly useless in the grand scheme of things, and yet, they were her treasures. They had granted others joy and comfort, and she had been jealous, never having known either of those sensations. She had pored over that box, examining her riches and keeping each item in pristine condition—far better care than any of those other children could give.

Now, she had a new jewel in her collection, a boy who had survived so much, only to fall listless without her attentions. Harry was happy now, thinking they had somehow found love, but she knew better. Portia had him now, and he would be very happy.

After all, she had always taken very good care of her things.

 


End file.
